فصل 6

VI

The sun was already well up in the sky when I awoke. The joints of my right hand were stiff from holding the pen so long. I could not close my fingers. The Buddhist storm had broken over me and left me tired and empty.

I stooped to pick up the pages scattered on the floor. I had neither the strength nor the desire to look at them. As if all that sudden rush of inspiration had been merely a dream which I no longer wished to see imprisoned in words and debased by them.

It was raining softly, silently. Zorba, before leaving, had lit the brazier, and I spent the whole morning coiled up in front of the fire, with my hands over it, eating nothing, motionless, just listening to the first rain of the season, softly falling.

I was thinking of nothing. Rolled up in a ball, like a mole in damp soil, my brain was resting. I could hear the slight movements, murmurings and nibblings of the earth, and the rain falling and the seeds swelling. I could feel the sky and the earth copulating as in primitive times when they mated like a man and woman and had children. I could hear the sea before me, all along the shore, roaring like a wild beast and lapping with its tongue to slake its thirst.

I was happy, I knew that. While experiencing happiness, we have difficulty in being conscious of it. Only when the happiness is past and we look back on it do we suddenly realise—sometimes with astonishment—how happy we had been. But on this Cretan coast I was experiencing happiness and knew I was happy.

That immense thirsting, dark-blue sea extended right to the shores of Africa. A very hot south wind often blew, the Livas, which comes from the distant burning sands. In the morning the sea gave off a scent like that of a water-melon; at noon it was covered with haze and still, its slight undulations being like immature breasts; in the evening it sighed and was the colour of the rose, of the aubergine, of wine, a deep blue.

In the afternoon I amused myself by filling my hand with fine light-coloured sand and letting it run, hot and soft, through my fingers. The hand—an hour-glass through which our life runs away and is lost. It was losing itself. I looked at the sea, heard Zorba, and felt my temples bursting with happiness.

I remembered how, one day, my niece, Alka, a little girl of four, while we were looking into a toy-shop—it was New Year’s Eve—she turned to me and made this extraordinary remark: “Uncle Ogre, I’m so glad I am growing horns!” I was startled. What a miracle life is and how alike are all souls when they send their roots down deep and meet and are one! For I at once recalled a Buddha carved in ebony which I had seen in a distant museum. Buddha had freed himself and was bathed in supreme joy after seven years of agony. The veins on either side of his forehead had so swollen that they had burst out of the skin and become two vigorous, curling horns, like steel springs.

The fine rain stopped falling towards the end of the afternoon, the sky became clear. I was hungry and was delighted to be hungry, for now Zorba would come and light the fire and begin the daily ritual of cooking.

“Another of these things that never leave you alone,” Zorba often said, as he set the pot on the fire. “It’s not only woman, curse her—that’s an endless affair—there’s eating, too.” On this coast I felt for the first time what a pleasant thing it could be to have a meal. In the evening Zorba lit the fire between two stones and did the cooking. We started eating and drinking, the conversation became animated. I at last realised that eating was a spiritual function and that meat, bread and wine were the raw materials from which the mind is made.

After his day’s hard work, before eating and drinking, Zorba was dull, his remarks peevish, and I had to drag words out of him. His movements were listless and awkward. But as soon as he had stoked up the engine, as he put it, the whole grinding, weary machine of his body came to life once more, got up speed and started to work again. His eyes lit up, he was brim full of memories, wings grew on his feet and he danced.

“Tell me what you do with the food you eat, and I’ll tell you who you are. Some turn their food into fat and manure, some into work and good humour, and others, I’m told, into God. So there must be three sorts of men. I’m not one of the worst, boss, nor yet one of the best. I’m somewhere between the two. What I eat I turn into work and good humour. That’s not too bad, after all!” He looked at me wickedly and started laughing.

“As for you, boss,” he said, “I think you do your level best to turn what you eat into God. But you can’t quite manage it, and that torments you. The same thing’s happening to you as happened to the crow.” “What happened to the crow, Zorba?”

“Well, you see, he used to walk respectably, properly—well, like a crow. But one day he got it into his head to try and strut about like a pigeon. And from that time on the poor fellow couldn’t for the life of him recall his own way of walking. He was all mixed up, don’t you see? He just hobbled about.” I raised my head. I had heard Zorba’s footstep as he came up out of the gallery. Soon after, I saw him approaching with a long scowling face, his arms dangling helplessly at his sides.

“Evening, boss,” he said lifelessly.

“Hello, Zorba. How did the work go today?”

He did not reply.

“I’ll light the fire,” he said, “and prepare the meal.”

He took an armful of wood from the corner, went outside, arranged the faggots artistically in a pile between the two stones and lit them. He set the earthenware pot on top, poured in some water, threw in onions, tomatoes and rice, and began cooking. Meanwhile, I put a cloth on a low round table, cut thick slices of wheat bread and from the demijohn, I filled with wine the calabash decorated with designs which uncle Anagnosti had given us soon after our arrival.

Zorba kneeled in front of the pot, stared into the fire and remained silent.

“Have you any children, Zorba?” I said all of a sudden.

He looked round.

“Why d’you ask me that? I have a girl.”

“Married?”

Zorba started laughing.

“Why are you laughing, Zorba?”

“What a question to ask!” he said. “Of course she’s married. She isn’t an imbecile. I was working in a copper-mine near Pravishta in Chalcidice. One day I received a letter from my brother Yanni. Oh yes! I’d forgotten to tell you I have a brother, a sensible, stay-at-home moneylender, a hypocritical church-goer, a real pillar of society… He’s a grocer in Salonica. ‘Dear brother Alexis,’ he wrote me, ‘Your daughter Phrosso has gone astray; she has dishonoured our name. She has a lover; she has had a child by him. Our reputation is ruined. I am going to the village to cut her throat. ‘” “And what did you do, Zorba?”

Zorba shrugged his shoulders. “’Ah, women!’ I said, and I tore up the letter.” He stirred the rice, put in some salt, and grinned.

“But just wait, you’ll see the funny side of this. Two or three months later I had a second letter from my silly brother. ‘Health and happiness to you, my dear brother,’ the fool wrote me. ‘Our honour is safe, you can now hold your head high again. The man in question has married Phrosso!’” Zorba looked round at me. By the glow of his cigarette I could see his eyes sparkling. He shrugged his shoulders again.

“Ah, men!” he said with unutterable scorn.

A little later, he continued:

“What can you expect from women?” he said. “That they’ll go and get children by the first man who comes along. What can you expect of men? That they fall into the trap. Mark my words, boss!” He took the pot off the fire and we began our evening meal.

Zorba was sunk in deep thought again.

Something was worrying him. He looked at me, opened his mouth and shut it again. By the light of the oil-lamp I could see the worried and anxious look in his eyes.

I could not bear to see him like this.

“Zorba,” I said, “there’s something you want to tell me. Well, tell me. Come on, now, cough it up; you’ll feel better afterwards.” Zorba remained silent. He picked up a small pebble and threw it with some force through the window.

“Leave the stones alone! Speak!”

Zorba stretched out his wrinkled neck.

“Have you got confidence in me, boss?” he asked, anxiously looking me in the eyes.

“Yes, Zorba,” I replied. “Whatever you do, you can’t go wrong. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. You’re like a lion, shall we say, or a wolf. That kind of beast never behaves as if it were a sheep or a donkey; it is never untrue to its nature. And you, you’re Zorba to the tips of your fingers.” Zorba nodded his head.

“But I’ve no longer the foggiest idea where we’re going!” he said.

“I have, don’t you worry about that. Just go straight ahead!”

“Say that again, boss, to give me courage!’ he cried.

“Go ahead!”

Zorba’s eyes shone.

“Now I can tell you,” he said. “I’ve been working out a big plan in my mind these last few days, a crazy idea. Is it on?” “Need you ask me? That’s what we came here for: to carry ideas into effect.” Zorba craned his neck, looked at me with joy and fear.

“Speak plainly, boss!” he cried. “Didn’t we come here for the coal?”

“The coal was a pretext, just to stop the locals being too inquisitive, so that they took us for sober contractors and didn’t greet us by slinging tomatoes at us. Do you understand, Zorba?” Zorba was dumbfounded. He tried hard to understand; he could not believe in such happiness. All at once, he was convinced. He rushed towards me and took me by the shoulders.

“Do you dance?” he asked me intensely. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“No?”

He was flabbergasted, and let his arms dangle at his sides.

“Oh, well,” he said after a moment. “Then I’ll dance, boss. Sit further away, so that I don’t barge into you.” He made a leap, rushed out of the hut, cast off his shoes, his coat, his vest, rolled his trousers up to his knees, and started dancing. His face was still black with coal. The whites of his eyes gleamed.

He threw himself into the dance, clapping his hands, leaping and pirouetting in the air, falling on to his knees, leaping again with his legs tucked up—it was as if he were made of rubber. He suddenly made tremendous bounds into the air, as if he wished to conquer the laws of nature and fly away. One felt that in this old body of his there was a soul struggling to carry away this flesh and cast itself like a meteor into the darkness. It shook the body which fell back to earth, since it could not stay very long in the air; it shook it again pitilessly, this time a little higher, but the poor body fell again, breathless.

Zorba puckered his brow; his face had assumed an alarming severity. He no longer uttered cries. With clenched teeth he was endeavouring to attain the impossible.

“Zorba! Zorba!” I shouted. “That’s enough!”

I was afraid that his old body would not stand up to such violence and might be shattered into a thousand pieces and scattered to the four winds of heaven.

But what was the use of my shouting? How could Zorba hear my cries from the earth? His organs had become like those of a bird.

I anxiously followed the savage and desperate dance. When I was a child I used to let my imagination go and told my friends outrageous fibs in which I came to believe myself.

“How did your grandfather die?” my little school-friend asked me one day.

And straight away I invented a myth, and the more I invented the more I believed.

“My grandfather had a white beard and used to wear rubber shoes. One day he leapt from the roof of our house, but when his feet touched the ground he bounced like a ball and bounced up higher than the house, and went higher and higher still till he disappeared in the clouds. That is how my grandfather died.” After inventing that myth, every time I went into the little church of St. Minas and saw at the bottom of the iconostasis the ascension of Christ, I would point to it and say to my comrades: “’Look, there’s grandfather with his rubber shoes!”

Now, this evening, after so many years, seeing Zorba leaping into the air, I lived through my childish tale again with terror, fearing that Zorba might disappear in the clouds.

“Zorba! Zorba!” I shouted. “That’s enough!”

At last Zorba crouched on the ground, out of breath. His face was shining and happy. His grey hairs were sticking to his forehead and the sweat, mixed with coal-dust, was running down his cheeks and chin.

I bent over him anxiously.

“I feel better for that,” he said, after a minute, “as if I had been bled. Now I can talk.” He went back to the hut, sat in front of the brazier and looked at me with a radiant expression.

“What came over you to make you dance like that?”

“What could I do, boss? My joy was choking me. I had to find some outlet. And what sort of outlet? Words? Pff!” “What joy?”

His face clouded over. His lip began to tremble.

“What joy? Well, what you said to me a moment ago, you said… just like that, in the air? You didn’t understand it yourself? We didn’t come here for the coal, you told me. That’s what you said, didn’t you? We came here to while away the time and lead them up the wrong track so that they shouldn’t take us for lunatics and sling tomatoes at us! But when we’re alone together and nobody can see us, we can laugh and enjoy ourselves! Isn’t that right? I swear that’s what I wanted, too, but I didn’t realise it properly. Sometimes I thought of the coal, sometimes of old Bouboulina, sometimes of you… a regular muddle. When I was picking out a gallery, I said: It’s coal I want! And from head to heel I became coal. But afterwards, when the work was finished, when I was skylarking with that old sow—good luck to her!—I said, let all the sacks of lignite and all the bosses go hang—by the little ribbon round her neck—and Zorba with them! Then when I was alone and had nothing to do, I thought of you, boss, and my heart melted. It weighted on my conscience. ‘It’s disgraceful, Zorba,’ I’d cry, ‘disgraceful for you to go and fool that good man and eat up all his money. When’ll you stop being a rotter, you Zorba, you? I’ve had enough of you!’ I tell you, boss, I didn’t know where I was. The devil was dragging me one way, God the other; and, between the two of them, they split me down the middle. Now, bless you, boss, you’ve said a great thing and I can see it all clearly now. I’ve seen, I’ve understood! We’re agreed! Let’s get cracking! How much money have you got left? Hand it over! Let’s eat it up!” Zorba mopped his brow and looked around. The remains of our dinner were still lying on the little table. He reached for them with his long arm.

“With your permission, boss,” he said. “I’m hungry again.”

He took a slice of bread, an onion and handful of olives.

He ate voraciously, tipped up the calabash; and the red wine gurgled down his throat without the calabash touching his lips. Zorba clicked his tongue; he was satisfied.

“That’s better,” he said.

He winked at me and asked:

“Why don’t you laugh? Why d’you look at me like that? That’s how I am. There’s a devil in me who shouts, and I do what he says. Whenever I feel I’m choking with some emotion, he says: ‘Dance!’ and I dance. And I feel better! Once, when my little Dimitraki died, in Chalcidice, I got up as I did a moment ago and I danced. The relations and friends who saw me dancing in front of the body rushed up to stop me. ‘Zorba has gone mad!’ they cried, ‘Zorba has gone mad!’ But if at that moment I had not danced, I should really have gone mad—from grief. Because it was my first son and he was three years old and I could not bear to lose him. You understand what I’m saying, boss, don’t you—or am I talking to myself?” “I understand, Zorba, I understand; you’re not talking to yourself.”

“Another time… I was in Russia then… yes, I’ve been there, too, for the mines again, copper this time, near Novo Rossisk… I had learnt five or six words of Russian, just enough for my work: no; yes; bread; water; I love you; come; how much?… But I got friendly with a Russian, a thoroughgoing Bolshevik. We went every evening to a tavern in the port. We knocked back a good number of bottles of vodka, and that put us into high spirits. Once we began to feel good we wanted to talk. He wanted to tell me everything that had happened to him during the Russian revolution, and I wanted to let him know what I had been up to… We had got drunk together, you see, and had become brothers.

“We had come to an arrangement as well as we could by gestures. He was to speak first. As soon as I couldn’t follow him, I was to shout: ‘Stop!’ Then he’d get up and dance. D’you get me, boss? He danced what he wanted to tell me. And I did the same. Anything we couldn’t say with our mouths we said with our feet, our hands, our belly or with wild cries: Hi! Hi! Hop-la! Ho-heigh!

“The Russian began. How he had taken a rifle; how war had spread; how they arrived in Novo Rossisk. When I couldn’t follow any more, I cried: ‘Stop!’ The Russian straight away bounded up, and away he went dancing! He danced like a madman. And I watched his hands, his feet, his chest, his eyes, and I understood everything. How they had entered Novo Rossisk; how they had looted shops; how they had gone into houses and carried off the women. At first the hussies cried and scratched their own faces with their nails and scratched the men, too, but gradually they became tamed, they shut their eyes and yelped with pleasure. They were women, in fact… “And then, after that, it was my turn. I only managed to get out a few words—perhaps he was a bit dense and his brain didn’t work properly—the Russian shouted: ‘Stop!’ That’s all I was waiting for. I leapt up, pushed the chairs and tables away and began dancing. Ah, my poor friend, men have sunk very low, the devil take them! They’ve let their bodies become mute and they only speak with their mouths. But what d’you expect a mouth to say? What can it tell you? If only you could have seen how the Russian listened to me from head to foot, and how he followed everything! I danced my misfortunes; my travels; how many times I’d been married; the trades I’d learned—quarrier, miner, pedlar, potter, comitadji, santuri-player, passa-tempo hawker, blacksmith, smuggler—how I’d been shoved into prison; how I escaped; how I arrived in Russia… “Even he, dense as he was, could understand everything, everything. My feet and my hands spoke, so did my hair and my clothes. And a clasp-knife hanging from my waistband spoke, too. When I had finished, the great blockhead hugged me in his arms; we filled up our glasses with vodka once more; we wept and we laughed in each other’s arms. At daybreak we were pulled apart and went staggering to our beds. And in the evening we met again.

“Are you laughing? Don’t you believe me, boss? You’re saying to yourself: Whatever are these yarns this Sindbad-the-Sailor is spinning? Is it possible to talk by dancing? And yet I dare swear that’s how the gods and devils must talk to each other.

“But I can see you’re sleepy. You’re too delicate. You’ve no stamina. Go on, go to sleep, and tomorrow we’ll speak about this again. I’ve a plan, a magnificent plan. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m going to smoke one more cigarette. I may even take a dip in the sea. I’m on fire. I must put it out. Good night!” I was a long time getting to sleep. My life is wasted, I thought. If only I could take a cloth and wipe out all I have learnt, all I have seen and heard, and go to Zorba’s school and start the great, the real alphabet! What a different road I would choose. I should keep my five senses perfectly trained, and my whole body, too, so that it would enjoy and understand. I should learn to run, to wrestle, to swim, to ride horses, to row, to drive a car, to fire a rifle. I should fill my soul with flesh. I should fill my flesh with soul. In fact, I should reconcile at last within me the two eternal antagonists.

Sitting on my mattress, I thought of my life which was being completely wasted. Through the open door I could just discern Zorba by the light of the stars. He was crouching on a rock, like a night-bird. I envied him. It is he who has discovered the truth, I thought. His is the right path.

In other, more primitive and creative ages, Zorba would have been the chief of a tribe. He would have gone before, opening up the path with a hatchet. Or else he would have been a renowned troubadour visiting castles, and everybody would have hung on his words—lords and ladies and servants… In our ungrateful age, Zorba wanders hungrily round the enclosures like a wolf, or else sinks into becoming some penpusher’s buffoon.

I saw Zorba suddenly rise. He undressed, threw his clothes on to the pebbles and plunged into the sea. For a few moments, by the pale light of the moon, I could see his great head appearing and disappearing. From time to time he uttered a cry, barked, whinnied, crowed like a cock—his soul in this empty night found an affinity with animals.

Gently, without my realising it, I fell asleep. The next day, at first light, I saw Zorba, smiling and rested, coming to pull me by the feet.

“Get up, boss,” he said, “and let me confess my plan to you. Are you listening?” “I’m listening.”

He sat on the ground like a Turk and started explaining how he would set up an overhead cable from the top of the mountain to the coast; in this way we could bring down the wood which we needed for the pit-props, and the rest we could sell as timber for building. We had decided to rent a pine forest belonging to the monastery, but transport was expensive and we could not find enough mules. So Zorba had imagined laying out a line with a heavy cable, pylons and pulleys.

“Agreed?” he asked me when he had finished explaining. “Will you sign?” “I’ll sign, Zorba. Agreed.”

He lit the brazier, put the kettle on the fire, prepared my coffee, threw a rug over my feet so that I should not catch cold, and went out, content.

“We’re going to open a new gallery today,” he said. “I’ve found a beautiful seam! Real black diamonds!” I opened the Buddha manuscript, and I, too, worked my way into my own galleries. I wrote all day, and the more I progressed the freer I felt. My feelings were mixed: relief, pride, disgust. But I let myself be absorbed by the work, for I knew that as soon as I had finished this manuscript and had bound and sealed it I should be free.

I was hungry. I ate a few raisins, some almonds and a piece of bread. I was waiting for Zorba to return, and with him all the things which rejoice the heart of man: clear laughter, the kind word, tasty dishes.

He appeared in the evening, and prepared the meal. We ate, but his mind was elsewhere. He knelt down, stuck little bits of wood in the ground, hung a piece of string on them, hung a match from some minute pulleys, endeavouring to find the right slope, so that the whole contraption did not fall to pieces.

“If the slope is too steep,” he explained to me, “we’re dished. We must find the exact slope. And for that, boss, we need some brains and wine.” “We’ve plenty of wine,” I said, laughing, “but, as for the brains…”

Zorba burst out laughing.

“There are some things you get the hang of, boss,” he said, looking at me affectionately.

He sat down to have a rest, and lit a cigarette.

He was in a good humour again and he became talkative.

“If this line worked,” he said, “we could bring down the whole forest. We could open a factory, make planks, posts, scaffolding; why, we’d be rolling in money. We could lay down a three-master and then pack up, throw a stone behind us and sail round the world!” Women in distant ports, towns, illuminations, gigantic buildings, machinery, ships came before Zorba’s eyes.

“I’m white on top already, boss, and my teeth are getting loose. I’ve no time to lose. You’re young, you can still afford to be patient. I can’t. But I do declare, the older I get the wilder I become! Don’t let any one tell me old age steadies a man! Nor that when he sees death coming he stretches out his neck and says: Cut off my head, please, so that I can go to heaven! The longer I live, the more I rebel. I’m not going to give in; I want to conquer the world!” He rose and unhooked the santuri.

“Come over here, you fiend,” he said. “What the hell are you doing hanging on the wall without saying a word? Let’s hear you sing!” I never tired of seeing with what elaborate precautions, with what gentleness, Zorba removed the cloth in which he wrapped his santuri. He looked as if he was removing the skin from a purple fig, or undressing a woman.

He placed the santuri on his lap, bent over it, lightly touched the strings—as if he were consulting it to see what tune they should sing, as if he were begging it to wake, as if he were trying to coax it into keeping company with his wandering spirit which was tired of solitude. He tried a song. It somehow would not come out right; he abandoned it and began another; the strings grated as if in pain, as if they did not want to sing. Zorba leaned against the wall, mopped his brow, which had suddenly started to perspire.

“It doesn’t want to…” he muttered, looking with awe at the santuri, “it doesn’t want to!” He wrapped it up again with care, as if it were a wild animal and he was afraid it might bite. He rose slowly and hung it on the wall.

“It doesn’t want to…” he muttered again, “it doesn’t want to… we mustn’t force it!” He sat down once more on the ground, poked some chestnuts amongst the embers and filled the glasses with wine. He drank, drank again, shelled a chestnut and gave it to me.

“Can you make it out, boss?” he asked me. “It’s beyond me. Everything seems to have a soul—wood, stones, the wine we drink and the earth we tread on. Everything, boss, absolutely everything!” He raised his glass: “Your health.”

He emptied it and filled it afresh.

“What a jade this life is!” he murmured. “A jade! It’s just like old Bouboulina!” I started laughing.

“Listen to me, boss, don’t laugh. Life is just like old Bouboulina. It’s old, isn’t it? All right, but it doesn’t lack spice. She knows a trick or two to make you go off your rocker. If you close your eyes, you’d think you had a girl of twenty in your arms. She is twenty, I swear, when you’re in the act and have put out the light.

“It’s no use your telling me she’s a bit over-ripe, she’s led a pretty fast life and been on the spree with admirals, sailors, soldiers, peasants, travelling show-men, priests, clergymen, policemen, schoolmasters and justices of the peace! So what? What of it? She soon forgets, does that old trollop. She can’t remember any of her old lovers. Each time she becomes—I’m not joking—she becomes a sweet little pigeon, a pure white swan, a sucking dove, and she blushes—yes she does, she blushes and trembles all over, as if it was the first time! What a mystery woman is, boss! Even if she falls a thousand times, she rises a thousand times a virgin. But how’s that? you’ll say. Because she doesn’t remember!” “Well, the parrot remembers, Zorba,” I said, to tease him. “He always squawks a name which isn’t yours. Doesn’t it annoy you, to hear that parrot screaming every time you reach the seventh heaven: ‘Canavaro! Canavaro!’ Don’t you ever feel like taking him by the neck and wringing it? It’s high time you taught him to shout: ‘Zorba! Zorba!’” “Oh, all that stuff and nonsense!” Zorba cried, stopping his ears with his great hands. “Wring his neck, you say? But I love to hear him shout that name! At night the old sinner hangs him up over the bed and the little devil’s got an eye he can see with in the dark, and scarcely have you got started having it out together than he begins shouting: ‘Canavaro! Canavaro!’

“And immediately, I swear, boss—but how could you understand that when you’ve been contaminated by those blasted books of yours?—I swear that I immediately feel patent-leather boots on my feet, plumes on my head and a silky beard smelling of patchouli on my chin. Buon giomo! Buona sera! Mangiate macaroni! I really become Canavaro. I clamber on to my flagship riddled with a thousand shots and away… Fire the boilers! The cannonade begins!” Zorba laughed heartily. He shut his left eye and looked at me with the other.

“You must forgive me, boss,” he said, “but I’m like my grandfather Alexis—God sanctify his remains! He used to sit in the evening in front of his door when he was a hundred and ogle the young girls going to the well. His sight wasn’t too good, he couldn’t see very clearly, so he’d call the girls over to him. ‘I say, which one are you?’ ‘Xenio, Mastrandoni’s daughter.’ ‘Come closer then and let me touch you. Come along, don’t be afraid!’ She’d try and keep a solemn face, and go up to him. Then my grandad would raise his hand to her face and feel it slowly, sensually. And his tears would flow. ‘Why d’you cry, grandad?’ I once asked him. ‘Ah, don’t you think I’ve something to cry about, my boy, when I’m slowly dying and leaving behind so many fine wenches?’” Zorba sighed. “Ah, poor old grandad!” he said. “How I feel for you! I often say myself: ‘Ah, misery! If only all the pretty-looking women’d die at the same time as myself!’ But the jades will go on living; they’ll be having a high old time, men’ll be taking them in their arms and kissing them, when I’m just dust for them to walk on!” He pulled a few chestnuts out of the fire, shelled them, and we clinked glasses. We stayed a long time drinking and slowly munching like two great rabbits, and we could hear the roaring of the sea.